Jail Life
by TheBlindfoldedCybertronian
Summary: When a newly recruited security guard starts duty, what surprises lie in store for him?
1. First Encounter

"Home sweet home…"

It was the darkest room Cliffjumper had ever seen; no windows, pathetic lighting, plus a paintjob that screamed depression. Two compressed steel beds lay idle towards the end of the room, looking very bare and uncomfortable. A single table stood weakly in the centre, peeled and rusted from age.

Miniscule energon scrapmetals scurried out from within the small holes that had been burrowed in the walls, one of the pests crashed headfirst into Cliffjumper's right foot.

The red mech scowled in response, and lashed out with his leg, sending the bug flying through the air, before it landed on the wall with a dull 'plonk'.

"Everything alright back there, Cliff?" a voice hollered from behind, the noise echoing off the rusted metal walls.

"Yeah," Cliffjumper muttered back, placing his heavy-duty backpack on the old table, "Everything's fine, I just, uh, encountered some minor problems whilst examining my surroundings."

Upon saying this, though, the table that he had just placed the backpack on crumpled under pressure, the skinny legs snapping instantly, due to the huge weight on top. It crashed to the floor loudly, breaking into even smaller pieces as it made contact. Cliffjumper grimaced at the sight, his face a mixture of disbelief and anger, whilst bending over to pick up his still-intact backpack.

The red mech kicked the remains of the table into the darkest corner of the room, before plonking his aft down on one of the two steel beds. The Autobot rummaged through his backpack, brought out a high-tech radio/alarm clock, and placed it on the bed next to his. It would have to double as a table for the time being.

The gathering siren rang, sharp and shrill, the sound flew through the dark corridors of the complex, alerting everyone instantaneously.

As Cliffjumper stood up to leave his room, he stared at what would be his home for perhaps the next few weeks. Dark, old, creepy, with a Scrapmetal corpse in the corner; it wasn't a Decagon Hotel Room, but it would have to do.

After all, comfort, out of all things, wasn't essential in the life of a newly recruited Prison Guard.


	2. Recruits

**Notes: Second chapter up, folks! Read, and enjoy! Just a short flashback sequence explaining what happened before chapter 1.**

**Approximately 4 solar-cycles before the first contact with prison base.**

"Excuse me, but…uh…" Cliffjumper raised his digitised map, and held it up for the information drone to see, "Any idea where to get to Hangar R2? This map's a killer on optics."

The drone, from his desk, raised an optic and quickly skimmed the presented map before standing up and gesturing towards the far west side of the square. "You'd wanna head through the west gate and go past Hangars A6, Y45, and T18. After that, take your first right, move past the pilot's lobby, and R2 should be right in front of ya, between R1 and R3. 'tis ya first day of duty, mate?"

"Yeah. Just came, fresh out of cadet school."

"Well good luck, pal. Hope you enjoy it."

"Cliffjumper lowered his map, pocketed it, and gave an assuring nod to the drone. "Cheers."

"Anytime," the information drone returned the friendly sign, and turned back at his next customer. "Alright, who's next…you? Okay…" the conversation was drowned out as Cliffjumper removed himself from the queue, and strolled to the west gate, slinging his backpack back onto his shoulder whilst doing so.

He continued across the busy square, cutting through multiple crowds of robots that were moving or stationary.

It had been a busy past few cycles for Cliffjumper. The young Autobot had recently completed his standard cadet course, and within his transition from student to a fully operational Autobot, he was given a list of options – temporary careers to pursue.

He had selected one.

The 'bot had figured it was a promising job, one that demanded multiple skills – combat experience, interrogation techniques, and interaction with the enemy. Another reason for this choice was the thrill and excitement. Cliffjumper was an adventure seeker; although he was talented in the field of combat, some would suggest that he was slightly reckless, often preferring to rush into situations head on with very little planning.

And thus, he had ticked the small little electronic box next to the two words that spelt out his impending future – those words, 'Prison Guard'. However, it turned out that he wasn't the only one applying for the job: three other equally bright-eyed and skilful Autobots had deemed the career as interesting and appropriate and they too, had marked their fate within the same box.

Files were checked, transport reservations were made, and all 4 Autobots, including Cliffjumper were in a job. They had all officially attained the rank of 'Prison Warden', got given a date and deadline regarding the details on their fresh occupation.

Cliffjumper strolled into the west gate, a large, steel-framed opening that spanned over a considerable distance. As he did, three familiar faces greeted him at the entrance, all of them bearing backpacks filled to the brim with equipment.

"Cliff!" yelled Padlock, a fellow Autobot cadet, and one of Cliffjumper's good friends, "Over here!"

Cliffjumper joined the trio, exchanged a quick greeting with Padlock, who introduced him to the other two Autobots; Smokescreen and Red Alert.

Smokescreen seemed to accept Cliffjumper well, exchanging a brief handshake and a couple of words. Red Alert, however, was a different story. With the appearance of Cliffjumper, the red and white Autobot had slowly retreated to the wall, a sign that he had no intention of interacting with the other three.

Cliffjumper noticed this, and queried Smokescreen about it. "Hey, Smokescreen, what's up with him?" the mech jerked a thumb towards the figure of Red Alert, "He doesn't seem to respond."

Smokescreen gave a slight smirk. "Nah, don't worry about it. Ol' Red's just a bit shy when it comes to things like these. He's been like that for as long as I remember. Like I said, don't worry; just give him some time to accept ya. Isn't that right, Red?"

Red Alert hoisted his backpack on, and replied with a short nod of assurance, before pointing in a northerly direction. "We'd better move, or else we'll be late."

"Primus, Red, you're right!" Smokescreen glanced at his arm mounted digital watch. "Padlock, Cliffjumper, sorry to break the introductory process, but you better get your gear together, 'cause our transport shuttle leaves in five cycles.

"Right." Cliffjumper and Padlock muttered in unison.

The quad departed from the west gate, and headed off to pursue their destiny.

They eventually would arrive at their designated ride, along with a handful of more experienced robots. The group would board the plane, eager to start work.

However, they had not been informed that the prison destination was a few solar-cycles away. And nothing could prepare them for the surprises that lay in store for them when they arrived.


	3. Briefed, first impressions

Cliffjumper scurried through the dark corridors that interlinked the different rooms. Autobots exited from their new dorms, and as Cliffjumper could see, all of them possessed a similar layout to his; old scrappy walls and floorboards, complete with two very uncomfortable looking steel beds. It seemed all the soldiers within the prison complex were receiving the same treatment.

"Hey, Cliff!" the sudden outburst of sound interrupted the young red mech's thoughts, and recognizing the voice, he whirled around instantly. The figure of Padlock, whom had emerged from a nearby door, obviously the entrance to a dormitory, rushed up to greet him.

"Padlock," Cliffjumper said, slowing his pace slightly so that his companion could keep up, "How's your room? All pristinely cleaned and dusted, I presume?"

The green recruit rolled his optics sarcastically. "Yeah, Cliff, it's heaven. I got a steel bed—actually not even a bed, a flat, slaggin' piece of metal to recharge on, a brilliant Scrapmetal carcass that is literally stuck to the ceiling above my cranium, and floorboards that crack even with the smallest step. Can't get any better than this, yeah?"

"Tell me about it. So, seen Red and Smokescreen anywhere?"

"Haven't caught sight of 'em yet, but I guess we'll catch up in the briefing room. Wonder what's gonna be briefed on our first day of duty, eh?"

The duo were then ushered into a large, open area. The space was quite empty – approximately 15-20 Autobot soldiers had gathered within the room, conversing loudly. A podium had been set up, along with projector and all. Tables were scattered around, quite a couple 'bots had already selected a table and were sitting and sipping the complimentary energon offered.

Cliffjumper and Padlock selected a small table that was positioned towards the far east corner of the room, one that consisted of four seats. They sat respectively, and Padlock instantly dug into the Energon Snacks, literally filling his mouth with the crisps. Cliffjumper reeled in surprise.

"What?" Padlock spluttered, his mouth expelling drool and crumbs everywhere, "Haven't seen a starving 'bot eat before?"

"Just not like you, that is," another voice spoke from behind, "Padlock, I must say, proper eating etiquette is something you do not possess."

Cliffjumper made a quick glance upwards, and smiled as the figures of Smokescreen and Red Alert, their fellow recruits, presented themselves at the table. "Care if I join you?" Smokescreen queried. Red Alert, as expected, stood silently to one side of his companion

"Sure," Cliffjumper pointed to two empty chairs, "Make yourselves at home."

"How's life, guys?" asked Padlock as the pair sat down, having finished stuffing himself, "Everything nice and comfy back at your dorms?"

"Really funny, Padlock," Smokescreen muttered, swishing his glass of energon drink whilst doing so, "I swear, my room was constructed from Scrapmetal corpses. Everywhere I look; those little buggers are plastered all over the wall. I'm gonna have nightmares about the things, man."

"You too?" Padlock raised a brow in amusement. "I thought I was unlucky, but after hearing that..." the 'bot was then interrupted mid-sentence, by the PA system mounted around the walls, making an announcement.

"_All robots within the briefing room," _an amplified male voice spoke, "_Please direct your attention towards the podium in front."_

All lights in the room suddenly dimmed, and two large suspended spotlights lit up the stage in front, illuminating the 'bot in charge, standing rigidly behind a microphone, whom was introduced by the MC as Strafe.

"So that's the boss bot?" Smokescreen half-whispered to Cliffjumper.

Cliffjumper replied in a hushed tone, "From what it looks like, yeah."

Strafe, began his presentation. "Autobot soldiers, you have been assigned as prison guards to protect and defend this complex efficiently. As some of you are aware of, this place is not newly constructed; rather, it is an abandoned recycling factory that was pulverised due to frequent Decepticon attacks within this specific sector. Its location has been marked as useless to both sides…until as of a few megacycles ago."

"Autobot HQ," Strafe continued, "has unanimously decided that this place is perfect for a prison cell. Its location is unknown to Decepticons alike, and it is well positioned in the middle of nowhere, a megacycles' distance from any functioning facility, something that is important when it comes to subsequent prison breaks. Also something to note, as this facility has only just been slightly refurbished, radio nor signal contact with HQ has yet to be established."

"The total number of Autobots stationed here comes up to 36, thus, you will be divided into 3 groups – Prisoner Interaction, Patrol Guard, and Heavy weapons squadron. Based on skills via collected records, you will be divided accordingly. I will begin to read the list…"

Cliffjumper pondered which job out of the three he would receive. As far as he was concerned, he would love anything but Prisoner Interaction. Dealing with war-torn 'cons was not his speciality – he was good at shooting them, not talking with them. But the decision was completely up to the 'bots at HQ to make. His destiny, had been decided already, and it had yet to be revealed.

**Notes: Sorry this third chapter took so long, but school, back 'ere in Australia, just started again, and homework, shiz, piling up, yeah, you kinda get the picture. Anyways, note that characters in this story may not coincide with the actual ones in the franchise. Some of the characters, I revamped their personalities, just for the fun of it. Padlock, if you don't know, is that useless Autobot in **_**Energon**_** who got his aft blown to smithereens. I decided to reuse the awesome name into an OC.**

**Cheers. **


	4. Breakfast

Smokescreen sat alone on the dull grey bench, a tray of blackened sludge positioned before him. He had attempted to ingest the stuff earlier, but just looking at the substance, just…sickened the life out of him. Personally, he had enjoyed the duties of a prison guard so far, the job he had been assigned (Patrol Guard) appeared interesting, the fellow soldiers and peers seemed friendly enough; the rooms were at the very most bearable, but the food…

He shifted his optics around the cafeteria. Practically everyone was receiving the same treatment: their lunch trays all consisted of disgusting, grey porridge that apparently passed for nutrition of some sort. Also, to make matters worse, three of the more, younger and inexperienced guards, had taken a couple bites of the stuff, and two of them were poised over small buckets, clutching their stomachs, whilst the other lay unmoving on the café floor. Everyone else in the hall was eating quietly, attempting to ignore the grotesque heap before them, but the strained expressions on their faces revealed their true feelings.

Smokescreen returned back to his dish of broth, before unsheathing a spoon from a disposable packet. Heck, if this was what he would be eating every day for the next few weeks, he'd have to get used to it.

The spoon made a 'plop' sound as it was thrust into the pile of grey mush, and slowly, to Smokescreen's apparent horror, began to sink and squelch into the mound. This was beyond disgusting.

"Smokey…?" a quiet voice invaded Smokescreen's thoughts, severing his concentration. He looked up, at was met with Red Alert, holding a similar tray with similar contents. Smiling, he gestured for his friend to sit on the chair next to his.

"How's the food? Is it good?" Red Alert asked nervously, whilst stabbing the substance aimlessly with the hilt of a fork, "What does it taste like, hm…?"

"Yeah, uh…" Smokescreen stared blankly at the handle of his spoon, still descending, "…I don't think I wanna find out…by the way, you're doing Heavy Weapons squad, aren't you?"

"Yeah…that's right." Red Alert scooped a minuscule amount of 'food' onto his spoon, and carefully, almost surgically, placed it into his mouth. He grimaced slightly, forcing the stuff down his throat, before taking a long swig from his Energon bottle. "It's…unpleasant…" Red Alert mumbled, the disgusting taste still lingering around his taste receptors.

"So I've seen," Smokescreen replied, collecting his tray, still untouched. "I'm just going to the bin to, ah, get rid of this crap. Save my spot, 'kay? I'll be back."

"Sure." Red Alert turned back to his sludge and continued eating it bit by bit, curling his tongue with each bite in an attempt to mask the taste.

Smokescreen walked towards the bin, and discretely scraped the contents of his tray into the waste container. Whilst doing so, out of the corner of his eye, he noticed a dejected figure, walking slowly across the eastern side of the room, heading to the exit door.

The bright red paint job was unmistakable. Cliffjumper.

What was the Autobot doing? Heading towards the exit at breakfast time? Was something up? Had the recruit done something wrong?

Almost magically, Red Alert appeared next to Smokescreen, dumping the remains of his breakfast into the garbage bin. Turning around and catching his friend's eye, Red Alert nodded in approval.

Smokescreen, seeing the gesture, posed a question. "You know what's up? With Cliff?"

"Uh, yeah…he told me this morning on his way out…you mean you don't know?"

"Nope. Haven't seen him since last night. Tell me."

"Yeah, he's heading out to receive his new prisoner. It's the first Decepticon to arrive at this very prison base to be precise. Cliff's gonna be guarding the fella."

**Notes: A short chapter detailing what Cliffjumper has in store for him – first prisoner, after his first day on the job. Sorry for the DELAYED update, exams, revision, man, the life of a student tis not easy, I can tell you that. Anyway, enjoy the update, I try to squeeze in some more, if I can. XD**


	5. The First Prisoner

He swore crudely as his limp body was swung carelessly against the side of the stone-hard walls. In return, he was smashed the back with the butt of an Assault Rifle, sending an excruciating volt through the young Decepticon's spine. Once again, he yelled in pain, this time turning around to face the escort guards, his face begging for mercy. The two looming figures behind simply gave him an empty stare, showing no compassion whatsoever. One of them, the larger of the duo, prodded him with the blade of an energy sword, before muttering, "Eyes forward, Decepticon."

"Just inspecting the troops…" he said through gritted teeth, the burning sensation of the sharp blow gradually abating.

The Decepticon's body had been beaten badly; his entire left arm was blackened from intense heat, most likely that of an explosion. Both shoulders featured gaping bullet wounds, dried fluid plastered spontaneously across the jagged holes. Legs and arms were dented in various places, signs of an intense fistfight – the 'con had obviously gone through one hell of a fight preceding his capture.

The smaller of the two guards strode over to a nearby security console, amidst the pouring rain, and entered a 5-digit code via a numerical keypad. Soon enough, access was granted, the doors slid nosily open, revealing a set of darkened and barred rooms; prison cells.

Unseen by his escorts, the Decepticon breathed a sigh of relief - they were taking him into custody, not recycling. His mainframe was going to be confined, not destroyed. A slight grin escaped onto the captive's mouth; being the good guys had its disadvantages.

Two Autobots stood unmoving by a nearby cell; a larger, bulkier robot, and a younger, sleeker mech. Prison guards, the 'con assumed, controllers of his current fate.

Again, he was forcibly pushed through the open doors, which closed upon entry, creating an eerie silence within the room, the slight sound of rainfall hitting pavement fading away in the distance. Again, he was thrown carelessly, this time, onto a waiting metal chair, and all his limbs were cuffed instantaneously, the guards not wasting any time.

"Hey, watch it, pal; I'm touchy around there…" The Decepticon whinged absent-mindedly, as the handcuffs were clamped painfully around his wrists, scratching the battle damaged plating.

The bulky Autobot stepped forward, out of the shadows, brandishing a massive battle axe, with which he aimed at the Decepticon's left optic. "Famous last words, scumbag," he bellowed, revealing a deep, war-torn voice.

"Whoa…," the 'con retreated instantaneously, "Don't want no trouble, pal."

"Trouble's the only thing a 'con can get around these parts." The hand with the axe lowered, the bulky soldier then gesturing for his sleeker buddy to step out.

The younger bot emerged, revealing a bright red fuselage. Wheels protruded from his shoulders and legs, suggesting a car for an alt-mode. Judging from his facial expressions, he seemed calm and compiled, though, the captured Decepticon noticed, his rigid movements perhaps indicating otherwise.

"…and you are?" the 'con asked, assessing the newcomer cautiously.

"Name's Cliffjumper," the Autobot nodded in approval, "I'm to be your assigned guard till your sentence ends."

"Cool, 'bro," the Decepticon looked back at his immobilised legs, shifting uncomfortably, "Hey, can someone get me out of these?"

"Your name, Decepticon?" Cliffjumper continued, unperturbed by the mech's complaint.

"They're starting to itch, and I can't itch them," the 'con struggled more violently, ignoring Cliffjumper's request, "It's real annoying, Primus, I-"

"He asked for your name, Decepticon!" the hand with the axe twitched slightly, the powered blade rotating online.

"My name?" the 'con snapped back into reality, glancing first, at the bulky axe wielder, then at the one named Cliffjumper. And it was on Cliffjumper on which he fixed his glare on, before finally replying.

"Demolishor."

**Notes: WHOA. LONG TIME SINCE I'VE UPDATED. But, exams and crap, you know, that shiz. But it should be better now – I'm on holidays. :D**


	6. Behind

"Demolishor? That wasn't so hard, right?" The heavy assault mech lowered his weapon, and circled around the captive, examining the young soldier's chassis whilst doing so.

"Punk-ass 'con," the brute muttered, optics flickering over the damaged mech, "What kinda name is Demolishor, huh? Looks like you were the one getting demolished, pal—"

"Fragheads," the Decepticon interjected, "You treat all your guests this nice?"

"Only those ones associated with Megatron, which, I'm afraid, includes you, my friend," Cliffjumper spoke with an authority that belied his age.

"I'm flattere—" Demolishor was tapped gently on his shoulder before he had a chance to complete his interjection. He turned, and found himself staring into the eyes of one of his escort guards, the larger one, who was gesturing with the energy sword to, the 'con assumed, either keep his mouth shut, or have it shut for him. He chose the latter.

"You two can leave now," Cliffjumper signalled for the two escort guards to exit through the west wing. They promptly filed into the exit, the last to leave tossed Cliffjumper his Assault Rifle, before slamming the iron-clad door. The ominous sound resonated through the now-silent room with a bang.

After a short interval, the Autobot brute broke the silence. "Okay, I'm off for lunch break. Cliff, he's all yours. I'll, uh, pull the rest of his file for you to look when you get the time." the tank then pointed to the 'con, "and you, don't give him too much, otherwise," he gestured to his massive axe, "you'll be answering to me, 'kay?

Demolishor nodded quickly; this time, not a word escaped from his mouth.

"Good. What's the matter, scum? Scrapmetal on your tongue?" the brute let out an enormous guffaw, before once again, the door slammed, leaving the room with one less bot.

Two remained in the room.

The Decepticon let out a short exhale, relieved that the brute had finally left him alone. The young Autobot seemed to catch this expression, and in return, levelled the rifle at Demolishor's left optic.

"Impactor, that bloke with the war-axe, is only the least of your worries. Sure, he's got the bolts and equipment, but when it comes to getting inside one's head, It's me you should be afraid of."

A short guffaw escaped from the captive's mouth. "Mind games?" he chuckled, "I fail to see what point there is to picking my brain when the appropriate thing to do with one's enemy is to grind them into submission."

"You're living on borrowed time, my dear friend. We want to make full use of you before your importance becomes expendable. Or would you rather we throw you into the trash compactor now? Get it over and done with?"

"Full use of me, a useless grunt?" the reply was bluntly spoken; spat out like garbage.

"Oh, yes," Cliffjumper smiled. The Decepticon had fallen into the immaculately laid trap he had prepared in his mind only minutes before entering the cell. "You are actually of great importance to the Autobot faction."

"What, as live bait? Believe me, it won't-"

"Tell me, Demolishor," Cliffjumper let the rifle clatter to the lifeless ground, "where were you approximately 3 mega-cycles ago?"

"3 mega-cycles…the heck? What on Jhiaxus has that…" the Decepticon suddenly stopped, and realised what the Autobot was getting at. "You don't mean…" he muttered through clenched teeth, "…you don't mean that time on Praxus?"

"That's what I'm talking about, Demolishor. Praxus. Three-deca-cycles ago." Cliffjumper smiled inwardly; the Decepticon was on the ropes now. The cool aura that had beheld his prisoner was no longer, after stripping away the protective covering by revealing a very significant event in his life; this Decepticon gave in to everything.

"So, Demolishor," Cliffjumper continued, savouring every moment, "Tell me clearly, bit by bit, what happened that day, to you, and your allegiance to Megatron."


	7. Origins, Part 1

Transformer Vocab:  
>deca-cycle: an earth week<em><strong><br>**_hic: kilometre **  
><strong>_**  
>3 deca-cycles ago, Praxus, prior to the invasion.<strong>_

A light transport dropship touched down just barely on the outskirts of the fabled city, the spinning turbines attached to its exterior surprisingly silent. The cargo compartment door slid open with a slight 'whoosh', and a band of dark-painted mechs filed out. Judging from their equipment, they were military, and the all too familiar purple insignia plastered on their chassis suggested that they were not here to halt destruction; rather, they would enforce it. The lead robot pulled out a high-powered pair of optic-enhancers and donned them as he strode down the ramp.

"We're about a couple hics out," he said, scanning the view before him, "Defence from this angle seems somewhat light, but more units may be lurking behind the city."

"So, Onslaught," a sharp-tongued and speedy looking robot replied, "we just have to keep our optics peeled, huh?"

"But of course, Breakdown," the commander said, optics still pressed to the device, "Those Autobots, despite their soft processors, are not to be underestimated, especially when they seem vulnerable."

"What a load of slag, Onslaught." A heavy-set tank armed with an abnormally large Gatling cannon walked up and settled next to the racer. "With enough bullets, weapons and firepower," he said smugly, "they'll fall just like any other old thing."

"With a data-core like yours, Brawl," Breakdown snapped, "I'm amazed that that's not all the information inside that shell of yours."

The tank unsheathed a very menacing war-axe, the dried energon still present on the blade. He pointed the weapon at Breakdown, and mimicked a throat-slitting action. "Say that again, punk, I dare you to."

"Sure thing, big fella."

"I swear, one day, if the Autobots don't tear you apart, you'll be the death of each other," Onslaught groaned, amongst the bickering. "I can't afford to have two goons arguing now, not before a battle as crucial as this one. Now, move those afts and set up those turrets like we discussed earlier."

"Sorry, boss." Brawl and Breakdown apologised almost in unison, and departed.

After seeing his lackeys leave, the commanding officer produced a schematic-drive and went through his prepared strategies and the blueprint to the gargantuan structure. He noted the large, arch-shaped design of the entrance to the city, took notice of the Autobot sniper nests scattered around the walls and considered the ordered, carefully constructed corridors in which enemy reinforcements could pass through.

To be perfectly honest, it seemed relatively easy to Onslaught. Despite the heavily armoured exterior, the structure was flawed, with exposed fuel lines positioned awkwardly near the main entrance. By igniting them with a couple of heavy shells, the fuel would be more than enough to topple the main gate. This breach would then be followed by the Decepticon snipers picking off the Autobot nests, and after, the machine gunners would tear up the interior. Then all that needed to be done was to plant the orbital beacon, mark the area for an air-strike, and clear out before the bombers arrived.

Done, dusted, finished. An easy mission.

But what didn't help, was that Praxus was also his home town.

The tactician had seen many a battle, and practically none had sparked so much as a flicker from his optics. The supreme overlord Megatron, seeing his lead strategist almost bored, decided to set him the task of destroying Praxus, stating that it was a large asset to the Autobot cause and immediate termination was required. Onslaught complied, but deep down knew that Megatron's true motive for placing this task in his hands was to see whether or not he was competent as a Decepticon loyalist.

The tactician had grappled with the task for a while, almost thinking of opting out at one stage, but eventually managed to gather his thoughts. He would declare absolute allegiance to the cause and to his commanding officer.

And yet even now, even after all the plans and the men had been drafted, after all the decision-making, Onslaught, for perhaps the first time in his career as a Decepticon, felt very uneasy.

An average-sized soldier assembling a lengthy rifle passed by the day-dreaming officer and noticed the blank expression over his CO's face.

"Sir?" he said nervously, "Are you all right?"

Onslaught appeared to not register, but after a few nano-seconds, he snapped back to reality. "Uh, yes, Demolishor, get back to your post, everything's under-control."

"Sir, the entire platoon's in position," the 'con said, whilst he connected the final piece, a scope, to his gun. "I was sent to tell you that the operation is ready to be initiated, and that all that's left is the green light from you."

Onslaught checked his handheld. "Primus," he muttered, "Time flies."

The tactician suddenly began to feel a strong sense of resistance within him. At this point, he was very tempted to abort the entire mission and pack it in. Leave now and put the business behind him. But the shame would be fatally consequential and Megatron would have his head, almost literally.

A battle between pride and guilt.

The memories from when he was a sparkling, those times of peace and longevity, before the inception of the two factions, his previous life, ready to go up in flames.  
>All at his command.<p>

The pair reached one of the designated Decepticon sniper points, where Demolishor lay down his rifle on a pre-made stand. Onslaught gazed down at the row of dead-set soldiers, awaiting his orders. An eerie silence lurked in the air, like the calm before a storm.

Conflicting feelings, something he had never felt previously, rushed almost instantly into him, almost drowning the tactician in a sea of madness.  
>It was now or never. He had to make a decision.<br>Grimacing, Onslaught's shivering hand raised up towards his mouth. Clutched tightly in his grip was a radio transmitter.

"All units…" the words came without thought, without warning.

_Just another ordinary battle, _he reminded himself. Yet he knew the truth he was purposely concealing from himself, he knew it all too well. Was he going to let it control him? Demolishor looked up from his prone stance, almost sensing a discrepancy in his commander's actions.

Absolutely not.

His mind a complete mess, the tactician spoke once more into the microphone.

"Commence operation."

The madness began.

**A/N: Yesh. It's been a while, but hey, I think I'll be back. For now. This chapter details Demolishor's back story, in a way, and despite him getting only a few moments, he'll be far more pivotal later on. Onslaught **_**is **_**portrayed as more mentally unstable than he actually is, but I love getting characters and turning them into something unlike themselves. Psychologically challenged and emotionally distraught Onslaught will also play an important role with Demolishor.  
>Stay tuned. xD<strong>


	8. Loss

"I almost feel terrible for the guy." Padlock aimed his rifle down range and unloaded a clip into the far-off target, making it shudder with the impact. "I mean," he continued, "the guy hates 'cons. He can't stand 'em. Not after what they did to him in this war."

"Mmmm." Smokescreen barely looked up from his game console. "What exactly did they do to him, by the way?"

"Wouldn't be able to tell you." the green prison guard shoved a fresh magazine into the underbelly of his weapon, and cocked it. "Cliff swore me to secrecy back when we were still in training. If I'd told you, he'd have my berth."

"Was he really sensitive back then? Or does he just not like sharing?" Smokescreen hammered away, oblivious to the almost annoying _click-click _he was making from the buttons being pressed.

"Nah, that was pretty much the only time. Everything else he's been completely fine with. D'you mind passing that cup over there?"

"Sorry, can't talk now. The 3rd boss just showed up, and my reserves are almost half depleted." The button mashing furiously intensified. "Maybe later," he added.

Padlock rolled his optics, and left the firing range briefly to take a sip of Energon. In all honesty, he was worried for his best mate. Not physically, mind you, as he knew Cliff could skilfully take down many a foe, but mentally.

Mentally, Padlock was unsure. Until recently, Cliffjumper was friendly, confident and occasionally brash. After the 'incident', however, he changed. Not an enormous one, but definitely one large enough to warrant strong questioning from those closest to him.

It had happened after his leave of absence. Cliffjumper, following his consideration of his future career choice, departed without notice for about 2 cycles. It was only when he returned did he reveal where he had been and what he had undergone.  
>Padlock had heard the crippling news from his friend's mouth himself.<p>

"_What happened? You didn't even tell me where you went, what's with that?" he had asked as Cliffjumper walked out of the transport bay, holding a large backpack._

_"Yeah, sorry 'bout that, buddy," Cliff's voice seemed almost melancholic in tone, his words slow. "I had to, ah…," he continued uneasily, "pay a visit to my folks."_

_"What, in Praxus?" Wait, wait, wait, wait. The cyclic bulletin said that Praxus was—"_

_"Yeah. Razed. Two nights ago."_

_"Primus, Cliff, and you were there?"_

_"I…," the red scout paused in a short moment of contemplation. "I saw it. I saw everything."_

_"What about your parents, did they…"_

_"Yeah. All gone." For a second Padlock caught a glimpse of his friend's quivering lip before it rigidly shifted into a half-hearted smile._

_"Cliff, I'm so sorry. I…I…I…" Padlock was flabbergasted, lost for words._

_"Padlock," Cliffjumper said, "don't worry about me. I'm fine, just a bit tired. You needn't waste your time and energy on the likes of me. Plus, shouldn't you be preparing for career choices?"_

_" I was…kind of waiting for you."_

_"Well in that case, now that I'm here, let's get going, shall we?" Cliffjumper dragged his pack across the smooth, metallic tarmac, heading towards his dorm. "Oh," he turned back to his fellow cadet, "and I'd appreciate it if word about this didn't get out, you know?"_

_Padlock returned Cliff's gaze reassuringly. "Sure."_

_"Otherwise," the young Autobot chuckled whilst patting his free hand on his companion's shoulder, "I'd have to kill you." The gesture, although made with friendly intentions, felt cold and artificial, making Padlock slightly uncomfortable and suspicious of his friend's hidden mindset. _

_That night, as Padlock returned from the washroom, he heard thumping noises emanating from beyond Cliffjumper's door. Listening closer, he heard muffled shouting, the sound of an object breaking into many pieces, and…_

_And crying._

_His friend was in tears._

_Padlock's hand wavered over the door handle for a slight moment, but ultimately, it withdrew and the green 'bot paced down the corridor, back to his own dorm. He knew that he wasn't very good when it came to dealing with emotion and loss. In fact, he had convinced himself that his presence would probably only make things worse.  
>The very next day, it seemed that Cliff was back to normal, chatting away obnoxiously, but ever since then, Padlock held his doubts about the scout's state of mind.<em>

Then 3 megacycles later, they had completed their cadet course and had transferred here. To beautiful, beautiful, isolation.

The automated doors swung open, interrupting Padlock's train of thought, and Red Alert strolled inside, and mindlessly dumped his tired aft onto the closest couch. Unfortunately, it was the same couch on which Smokescreen was fixated on, still pounding away on his console.

"What the—MY LEG," Smokescreen reacted instantaneously, violently jerking his limb upwards, crashing it, rather painfully, into Red Alert's face.

Red Alert reeled back in pain, knocking the back of his head against the hard arm rest, and ended up moaning in pain on the ground, holding both sides of his head. A shrill emerged from the games console, indicating a 'GAME OVER'. Infuriated at the loss, Smokescreen began bashing the grounded Red Alert with the entertainment device, yelling expletives such as "You fragging glitch-infested son of a corrupted, rabid Insecticon," and so forth.

"I'm sorry! I'm so sorry!" Red Alert exclaimed in between smashes.

"I—_punch_—WAS—_punch_—WINNING!" Smokescreen roared at the top of his voice.

Padlock did a double take, and he ended up spitting out half his energon drink all over the Rec-room floor. This was followed by much laughing and rolling.

The wrath of Smokescreen eventually eased up, and soon Red Alert, rubbing his aft in great pain, was digging into a packet of coolant-flavoured goodies. Padlock had cleaned up his mess and was still sniggering quietly in the corner. Smokescreen, having calmed down, plonked back onto the couch and muttered a brief 'idiots' before rebooting his game console.

Only it didn't reboot.

The pummelling of Red Alert with the device had jammed the ON/OFF button in place.

Smokescreen gave a slight snort of disbelief before banging his head repetitively on the table in front of him.

"How was, uh, the heavy weapons squad?" Padlock asked Red Alert.

"Good," the quiet 'bot replied shyly, "A bit tiring, but it went well."

"That's good." Padlock placed the empty glass back on the table, sighing.

Prison was going to be pretty hectic.

**A/N: Another chapter is up! I seem to be moving better than previously expected. xD  
>As always, I hope you enjoy it, and happy reading!<strong>


	9. Origins, Part 2

The shells blasted out of the mounted artillery cannons, lighting up the night Cybertronian sky with bright, flaming trails. A persisting echo sounded across the barren plains, which was closely followed by a collective drone as the shells fell down towards their targets.

Over the communications channel, Breakdown's distorted voice uttered a deadpan "_3…2…1…Shield your audio receptors…_" before the projectiles made contact. The fuel lines ignited almost instantaneously, creating a spontaneous chain reaction, exploding one after another. Two unfortunate Autobot patrols were subsequently engulfed by the resulting detonation, their afts completely vaporised along with a small portion of the guard tower.

_"Music to my ears," _sniggered Brawl, who, from his position over by the rearmost cannon, basked in the glory of the explosion.

Demolishor mounted his rifle on the temporary barrier, and briefly checked the magazine before assuming a prone stance. He then swung his rifle towards a medium-sized guardhouse positioned roughly half a hic east from the main gate, appropriately adjusted the zoom of his scope, and patiently waited for the signal. From their respective embankments, the other Decepticon marksmen did the same, zeroing in on a specific fortification placed around the heavily guarded entrance, covering, essentially, the entire of the front courtyard.

"Steady, Demolishor, just keep it steady." The young soldier muttered quietly to himself, whilst restraining his ambitious trigger finger. He checked his magazine one more time, repeatedly counting the carefully arranged frag bullets over and over until he was interrupted by a horrible, metallic screeching noise. Looking up, he was unable to bring his optics away from the scene before him.

A shell had discharged conveniently next to the wall-mounted outpost closest to the main gate, spraying copious amounts of energon onto the gate itself, the enormous amounts of fuel originating from presumably a clogged supply line. The second shell had directly impacted against the drenched gate, sparking the fluorescent blue fluid, creating a flaming behemoth, scorching, hungry and angry. The massive gate had creaked awkwardly, and was now half unhinged, due to the persisting flames lapping at the steel restraints.

It was a spectacular sight to behold. The structure, barely holding its own weight, moved ever slowly towards the dusty ground. Screams of pain could be heard as the Autobot soldiers were burned, filling the night air with the smell of charred metal.

The shot came almost instantaneously, ricocheting off the top of the barricade Demolishor was stationed on. Forcibly shaken from his trance, the sniper reacted with haste, cocking his rifle, aligning his crosshairs with the cranium of the Autobot guard before squeezing the trigger. A mess of parts and liquid erupted from the enemy soldier's skull, and he silently flopped to the ground, offline.

As the first shot was fired, a volley of bullets proceeded to shower the various Autobot blockades, with the four Decepticon snipers picking off the confused and shaken red troopers. Distant screams were abruptly cut off mid-way as they were silenced by a high-powered bullet entering their throat, and all too soon, a fair number of corpses lay strewn, unmoving, outside the flaming gate of Praxus.

_"Keep that artillery bombard up until the gate falls down!" _Brawl's gruff voice rang out once more over the intercom, _"Strike team, weapons check…" _and was quickly overpowered by yet another shell impact and detonation.

Demolishor initiated a brief optical sweep of his designated sector, and, upon receiving no signs or indication of survivors, reported in.  
>"Delta-1 here,"he spoke swiftly on the active channel, wasting no time, "Eastern front secure."<em><br>_The responses were similarly snappy, as the respective snipers confirmed the overarching situation.  
><em><br>"Copy that Delta-1, Delta-3 acknowledges. All hostiles are offline down here."_

"This is Delta-2. Perimeter is squeaky clean. Standing by for further orders."

"Delta-4 here. Ditto to that."

An enduring silence filled the channel as they awaited their commander's orders. There was nothing. As if noticing the silence, the gates of Praxus finally gave way, connecting with the ground with an ominous sound. The crackling of the flames, however, could still be heard around the city.

"I repeat," Demolishor spoke again, slower this time, "Sniper team is all set. Standing by for your orders, sir."

There was a response this time. Laboured, almost pained breathing crackled roughly into the radio receptors, persisted for the briefest of moments, until a voice articulated.  
><em><br>"Delta-1, Delta-2, relocate to assist the Strike squad in the clean-up operation. Delta-3 and 4, hold position and maintain surveillance of the outskirts. Commander out."  
><em>  
>"Roger that." Demolishor disassembled his weapon, transformed into his high-speed alternate mode, and drove in the direction of the strike squad. He was indeed concerned about the outcome of the battle.<br>He was more worried, though, about his commander's obvious instability. Would he be able to plant the beacon? Let alone finish the mission? End the town? Only time would tell.


End file.
